


Words of Healing

by IndigoDream



Series: Bribe & Reward fics [3]
Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Flowers, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Hurt, Hurt Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Hurt/Comfort, Immortal Jaskier | Dandelion, Injury, M/M, Major Character Injury, Near Death, Soft Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Spirit of Nature Jaskier, fields
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-15
Updated: 2020-05-15
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:15:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24189505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IndigoDream/pseuds/IndigoDream
Summary: The weather is heavy, clouds rolling off the horizon, speaking of an upcoming storm, and it almost makes Jaskier smile. He likes storms, loves when they explode and give him the freshening he needs. After all, he is a son of Nature, and when the weather is too hot, he aches for the release of water, for the sky to open up and give him something more.Geralt is less enthusiastic about it. They’ll either have to find a cave or steer Roach towards the nearest village, so that they may sleep covered, away from the lightnings and torrential rain. It’s one of the few times they disagree. Jaskier wouldn’t mind being outside during that weather, wouldn’t if they keep travelling. He would find it more pleasant than the unbearable heat they’ve been sweating through for the past few weeks.--An ambush puts Geralt's life at risk, and Jaskier has to save him.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Bribe & Reward fics [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1745836
Comments: 14
Kudos: 390





	Words of Healing

**Author's Note:**

  * For [geekyyoungblood](https://archiveofourown.org/users/geekyyoungblood/gifts).



> This fic is for the lovely geekyyoungblood!! 
> 
> I'm sorry for the time it took me to get it up and running, this was supposed to be done *hours* ago and then the boys decided to run their mouths and have a lot of things to say. :D 
> 
> This is, yet again, a bribe fic. Listen, if people need motivation for something, I write fics. No one complains !!! It's a lovely way of exchanging stuff. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy this!!

The weather is heavy, clouds rolling off the horizon, speaking of an upcoming storm, and it almost makes Jaskier smile. He likes storms, loves when they explode and give him the freshening he needs. After all, he is a son of Nature, and when the weather is too hot, he aches for the release of water, for the sky to open up and give him something more. 

Geralt is less enthusiastic about it. They’ll either have to find a cave or steer Roach towards the nearest village, so that they may sleep covered, away from the lightnings and torrential rain. It’s one of the few times they disagree. Jaskier wouldn’t mind being outside during that weather, wouldn’t mind if they keep travelling. He would find it more pleasant than the unbearable heat they’ve been sweating through for the past few weeks. 

There is no village close enough, nowhere they could beg a night spent in a barn either. In those mountains, there are only rocks, wild animals, and them. They probably left the last instance of civilization days ago, when they passed the large town where Geralt had gotten his largest contract of the year yet. Which is why they have been in those mountains for three days. 

“Can’t you do some witchering and find the monster easily?” Jaskier complains on the evening of the third day, when they are settling camp and neither of them has the energy nor want to start a fire. “It’s been three days, Geralt!” 

“I know,” the witcher growls back. “I don’t know what you expect each time you come along. The monsters aren’t always easy to find.” 

“They sure are easy to find for peasants who live in those mountains,” Jaskier pouts. “Why not for you?” 

“I’m not from here, for starters,” Geralt answers as he throws him the water pouch. “And I don’t know the tracks they take. And when I have you and Roach along, I can’t go deep into the woods like I usually would. I have to wait until it attacks.” 

“That’s a shitty explanation,” Jaskier protests and drinks a gulp of the water, his throat parched. 

He would take more, can feel the need for it building in his body, almost like wood splintering, but he knows Geralt needs the water as well. Probably even more than him, since Geralt is the one who does all the monster killing, after all. So he only takes one gulp and passes back the pouch. 

“That’s the only one you’ll get,” Geralt grumbles back. 

Jaskier takes care of Roach, taking off the saddle and bridle for the night, and he mimics his friend. The mare huffs and snorts, and he grins back, slipping a hand in his pack to give her some sugar cube. He always buys some for her whenever he can. Despite Geralt’s gruff “don’t touch her”, he knows that she likes him. To a certain extent. 

“Don’t conspire with my horse against him,” Geralt jostles his shoulder. “That’s not very polite of you, bard.” 

“Oh, today would sure be a great day to have a politeness lesson from you, master witcher! Should I grunt to ask for a room at the next inn, and barely say a word to the next person who wants to hire us? I seem to recall that is _your_ notion of politeness.” 

The fond teasing makes them both grin, and they sit in the small meadow they camped in, eating and sharing jokes and barbs. It’s a comfortable routine, and they are easy going with each other. Geralt smiles, and his golden eyes light up, and each time, Jaskier feels his heart flutter in his chest. His feelings for the man have grown from friendship to fondness very early on, but he can admit to himself that this is more than fondness now. It’s aiming into the dangerous territory of love, and he isn’t sure they would both recover from that. Geralt has a hard time enough acknowledging they are friends, very good friends at that, so Jaskier doesn’t believe the suggestion of love would be welcome. 

It doesn’t sadden him much, although he wishes it could be different. But Jaskier has wished for so many things that he forgets what it is to not be constantly yearning for something. So wishing that him and Geralt could love each other? It is just a wish he keeps hidden, buried in a wooden heart and purple flowers surrounding it. Children of Nature are good at keeping secrets after all. 

They are getting ready for bed, Jaskier removing his doublet to try and cool down from the summer heat in the slowly chilling evening, and Geralt with his chest naked, a tempting sight, only his medallion hanging around his neck as it always does. It’s routine, soft and known, and they don’t talk through it. Jaskier has learned to enjoy the moments when they don’t speak as much as the moments when they do. It’s companionable silence, easy between them. 

The first bolt hits Geralt right in the stomach as he is laying down. There is a grunt of pain, and blood slowly pours out of the wound, but Geralt still struggles to sit up, reaching for his swords. There are more bolts landing around them before he can, and one sinks into his right wrist, causing him to yell in pain as it breaks through the joint linking his hand and wrist together. 

“Geralt,” Jaskier yells and scrambles up, trying to come closer, but a bolt sinks into his leg and he stumbles.

Physical pain means nothing to him, and whoever is trying to ambush them clearly doesn’t know that. And Jaskier is _angry_. He may not be a god, but he is a Child of Nature, he is a Spirit of this world, and only another Spirit may kill him. He grabs the bolt protruding from his knee and rips it out, twirling it in his hands as he focuses. 

His senses are mostly dulled when he is with Geralt. He dislikes feeling the monsters coming, the way they disturb the earth and kill nature, their presences so dark they make him sick sometimes. But right now, he needs to get attuned to it, because Geralt is hurt and still struggling to pick up his swords and stand up. 

“Jaskier, stay back,” Geralt grunts as he limps up, ripping the bolt out of his wrist first and then the one in his chest. “It’s too dangerous.” 

Right, Jaskier never told Geralt about his parentage, or well. _Lack thereof_. Children of Nature are born when they are needed, springing from wherever their god wishes them to exist. Jaskier is a little bit different from his siblings; he is allowed to travel throughout the continent, can bless and curse however he wants. He is the favourite of their Mother. 

“Don’t worry about me,” Jaskier says and places himself in front of Geralt, another bolt hitting him in the throat. 

That’s what makes him the angriest. His throat is where his voice resides, where his blessings and curses live and die, and it’ll take some time before he can speak again. He doesn’t need his voice right now though. He slowly takes it out and Geralt gasps in horror.

He throws the bolts, and immediately, two bodies hit the ground. Then he moves. He listens to the angry whisperings of the leaves and trees, hears how they guide his feet, light up with fury at the men hurting one of them. And Jaskier sees. 

His hands are red with blood when he comes back, and so are his teeth, flesh ripped out from men slowly being discarded. Sometimes, nature is violent. A wolf may strike the gentle rabbit in the quietest of the night, and an eagle may lift the starving fox, only to have dinner. Just like them, Jaskier is violent and seeks out the blood of his preys. 

Geralt is on the ground when he comes back, and there is a new bolt in his chest, right underneath his heart, and suddenly Jaskier feels fear. He hadn’t been afraid, before. Angry, furious, worried, yes. But he hadn’t been afraid. Fear hadn’t been on his mind in anyway. Now, he sees Geralt bleeding, hardly breathing, and he feels terror freezing his bones. 

Rushing to the man’s side, he presses on the other wounds, trying to stop the blood from dripping down more. Geralt needs blood to survive, he needs medical attention. But they are stuck on a mountain, three days away from civilization, and Jaskier doesn’t know which potions can help him. He can’t even hazard a guess, because if he tries the wrong one, it could severely hurt the man he loves. So he patches up the wounds as best as he can and grabs their packs, tossing them on Roach’s back. 

The mare is calm as he gets everything ready. She seems to understand his franticness, and she doesn’t move when Jaskier pushes Geralt on top of her, and then struggles to get behind as well. The heat of the night is still oppressive, and it only gets worse as he holds the man against himself while pushing Roach into a gallop. 

Of course, it is now that the sky decides to bless them with water and thunder. It’s loud and angry, but Jaskier basks in it, pushing energy into Geralt to keep him alive. He doesn’t mind this, he can give endless energy to him, but he knows that, unless he is given the right ingredients, he can’t heal him. That breaks him. He needs to heal Geralt, he needs to be able to do this one thing for him, or otherwise… Otherwise loving him means nothing. 

The woods are thick, and the night is dark, only illuminated by the few thunder strikes. Jaskier holds Geralt tightly, but he can feel life seeping out of the man in slow, but constant waves, no matter how much pressure he applies on them, no matter how much energy he feeds into him. He’s trying so hard to call onto his healing powers, but he struggles with it. He can never manage to do it. He might have his Mother’s blessing, he does not have the gift of healing. It is a practiced art, one that he never bothered to learn more than he thought he would need. He had only cared about the gift of music. 

Roach gets spooked by something, and Jaskier looks around, and he sees a wolf growling, hungry for a prey, and larger than it should be. A flash of red, eyes from another world, fangs bared, and the wolf cowers and runs away. 

In that moment of pause, when his eyes are still those of another world, he blinks and he sees the field. 

Full of flowers, lush and tall, and full of soft grass, the field is beautiful, even in the darkness of the night and with the rain pouring over them. It’s his one chance at healing Geralt, and Jaskier steers a reluctant Roach towards the field.

He drags Geralt down, feels his blood sticking to him as he puts him down in the grass. He is less frantic now, calmer and breathing softly, and he presses a kiss to Geralt’s forehead. 

“It’s all going to be fine now, my love.” 

He shouldn’t say things like that, shouldn’t feed his own delusions, but Geralt can’t hear him, so there is nothing wrong with comforting his own self by talking to the man this way. 

The grass grows under his hands, slowly sheltering the wounded witcher, tight around the wounds in the man’s body. Jaskier let’s it grow until it reaches a good point, and then he is off, grasping at all the flowers and desperately trying to find those he needs for the types of wounds Geralt has. He knows the spells, he knows the words he’ll have to say over them, but he needs those flowers. Poppies, lavender, chamomile, to put the pain to sleep, so that there will be no hurt left within the body. Calendula and Hawthorn, to close the wounds. Dandelions to clean the blood of any impurity, and peonies to mend the torn muscles. His magic will do the rest, but he just needs to find those. 

His eyes are red still, he can sense it, from the way he is able to see perfectly in the rain and starless night. It makes his search much easier, so much easier, and when he has gathered all the flowers in the quantities he need them, he could cry in relief. Instead, he runs back to Geralt. 

The witcher is breathing, but barely, and blood is soaking the grass. Jaskier orders it away, and he crushes the flower in the bowl he usually eats in, letting some of the rain water the paste. He applies the paste on every wound he finds, and pushes it inside as well. It might hurt Geralt at the moment, considering the moans and groans of pain, but Jaskier knows that it will help. When he is done, he takes one of the poppies he had gathered, one of the few he hadn’t crushed earlier, and he crushes them again, letting more water fill the bowl, until he can tell the mixture is right, can tell that it will be alright for Geralt. He sits behind him and lifts his head, before making him drink the mixture slowly, ensuring that every bit of the watered down poppies are drank by his friend. 

Spellwork is not his forte, especially when it comes to magical spellwork, but Jaskier remembers his Mother telling him that his magic was more of an instinct, something that grew within his heart and then spilled over. And Jaskier’s heart is full of love for Geralt, more than ready to spill over for him. 

When the words flow out of him, it is as easy as breathing. His magic wraps itself around Geralt, guiding the healing softly through him. He finds other wounds, smaller and less important, but he heals them nonetheless. He feels the bump and dips of badly healed scars, and he takes care of those as well. Everything that he can heal, he does. Deeper, much deeper, there is a pain he could never heal. The trials have cut into Geralt in a way that has left him wounded, and no one will ever be able to soothe that pain. Jaskier wants to try, wants to give it all that he has, and maybe he could, maybe there would be the possibility of it, if he bothered to learn healing magic properly. But he doesn’t think Geralt would want that. 

His knees are set harshly within mud when the rain finally stops, and he feels the sun slowly rising in the sky. He drinks in the warmth of the sun, and pushes it into Geralt. The cold skin of the witcher warms up under his hands, and he breathes easier. Jaskier undoes all the bandages on his skin, and ensures that all the wounds are healed. 

Geralt is absolutely gorgeous in the rising sun, torso displaying scars that are mostly faded now. On his wrist, there is a new one, but it’ll be gone soon, and so will be the two dips on his chest that mark where the bolts of crossbow nearly killed him. Jaskier calms down fully now, and he realizes he is starving. He doesn’t remember what he ate the previous night for dinner, doesn’t remember if it was just the previous night. The storm could have lasted days, and he wouldn’t have noticed. He doesn’t know when they are. It doesn’t worry him. 

He settles behind Geralt, keeping his head on his lap, and his hands caress the white hair. It will take a few minutes, or perhaps hours, until Geralt wakes up. So he waits, his fingers tangling into the white locks and slowly undying all the knots there. It’s a slow, but peaceful process. 

Geralt is still asleep when he is done brushing all the hair away, and Jaskier presses a light kiss to the Witcher’s forehead. He shouldn’t, should remember boundaries and consent. Geralt probably wouldn’t want all that affection. 

He is slowly braiding the white hair with bright yellow dandelions, admiring the contrast, when the man stirs slightly. He stills completely, waiting to see if Geralt is going to wake up fully, or if it is just one small moment of near-consciousness before he goes back under the influence of the poppyseed. Jaskier _may_ have dosed a tad too strongly. 

“Why did you stop?” Geralt’s voice is rough with sleep, and his eyes are still closed, but he still tilts his head more towards Jaskier. 

“Stop what?” Jaskier’s voice trembles. 

“Your hand. In my hair.” He opens his eyes slowly, blinking rapidly against the sun’s bright light. “It was really nice…” 

“I thought you wouldn’t want me to keep braiding flowers in your hair, and anyway, I should remove them so-“ 

“No,” Geralt’s hand moves quickly, and he stops Jaskier from taking them away. “Please. Finish it? It’s… soothing.” 

“Oh.” Jaskier looks at Geralt’s hand encircling his wrist and he smiles gently. “You can let go, I’ll finish it, I promise.” 

“Good.” Geralt’s hand slips away, and Jaskier misses the contact instantly, but he starts braiding the hair again delicately. “Will you tell me how you saved us then?” 

“Do you really want to know?” Jaskier asks the question softly, his eyes focused on the white hair he is taking care of. 

“I want to know everything there is to know about you,” Geralt says, and his hand sneaks upwards again, touching Jaskier’s chin and making him look directly in his eyes. “Everything.” 

Jaskier bites his lips and nods, smiling slightly. “Alright then.” 

Geralt smiles softly, and he closes back his eyes as Jaskier starts talking. He tells him about his Mother and his Siblings, tells him about being a Child of Nature. He talks of the worlds he has seen, the people he has met. He mentions the family he has gained and lost throughout time, those he had to watch leave him, and those he left without a second glance. He talks about all there is to know: his powers, his senses, his very existence into the world.

The only piece he keeps to himself is the endless love he has for the witcher in his lap. 

“You called me something earlier,” Geralt says softly when he is done talking, when they are now simply lying in the sun together. 

Jaskier’s stomach ties into knots. Was Geralt awake when he called him ‘my love’? Did Geralt hear him? Is he angry? Should he lie, say he doesn’t know what the witcher is talking about or-

“You called me your love,” Geralt continues, looking up at him. “Did you mean it?” 

Jaskier feels his throat closing down, feels the panic rising in him. He could lie, could say it was nothing, but… He doesn’t want to. Maybe this will ruin his friendship with Geralt, but he is willing to risk it. 

“Yes,” he whispers. “I mean it.” 

“Good.” Geralt says and smiles softly. “Will you say it again?” 

Jaskier’s lips are dry, and his mouth feels full of cotton. He feels like he is floating and sinking at the same time, like his body is not in this realm anymore. And yet, he can feel the warmth of Geralt’s body against his, the way his hand is wandering to touch his cheek. He can feel the sun shining upon them, and the grass protecting them from the mud. 

“My love,” he whispers softly. “My love.” 

Geralt’s answering smile is the brightest Jaskier has ever seen. It takes over his face, tenderness making his eyes shine. His hand caresses Jaskier’s cheek, his thumb brushing over the Spirit’s lips. 

“Your love…” 

Jaskier’s heart feels like exploding. He wonders if it is possible for him to die this way, from being overwhelmed by emotions. He nods simply. 

“Won’t you kiss your love then?” Geralt asks, a soft grin on his face.

“I…. Would you want that…?” 

Geralt laughs slightly, beautiful and loud in the quiet afternoon. “Yes. I want that. I’ve wanted that for a long time.” 

“Why did you say nothing?” 

“Why didn’t _you_ say anything? You were always off gallivanting with some woman or the other… I thought you weren’t interested.” 

“I was trying to ignore my feelings for you…” Jaskier feels a prick of shame. “I’m sorry, I thought you didn’t want anything or anyone and-“ 

“I didn’t have anything to want when I had you right there with me,” Geralt says simply. 

The bright yellow flowers in his hair make him look like he is glowing in the sun, and with his golden eyes, Jaskier wonders briefly if he isn’t a Child of the Sun. He would have known if he were, and no Spirits can be a witcher anyway, but still. There is a grace around him, a timeless beauty, that puts awe in Jaskier’s heart. 

He bends down and slowly kisses Geralt. The angle is slightly awkward, but it doesn’t change that this is the most wonderful thing Jaskier has ever experienced. Geralt’s lips are soft and plush, and the man kisses back happily. 

When Jaskier withdraws, Geralt sits up slowly, and Jaskier misses his weight on his legs immediately. His body feels a bit numb, hunger and hope both beating inside him madly. Geralt reaches out for him and presses a kiss to his hand, before bending down slightly to kiss Jaskier’s throat, where a white dot marks the bolt that threatened his voice. He places tender kisses along Jaskier’s neck and jaw, before finally reaching his mouth. 

“I love you,” he whispers against Jaskier’s lips. “I’ve loved you for months.” 

“I’ve loved you for years,” Jaskier chuckles and kisses him.

“This isn’t a competition,” Geralt answers with a teasing smile and kisses his cheek. “My love.” 

Hearing those words directed to him, hearing them in Geralt’s voice, it’s worth all the kisses in the world. Jaskier breaks out in a wide smile, and hugs Geralt. He buries his face in the Witcher’s neck, feeling the slow, steady pulse of his heart. 

They stay like this, embracing each other, until hunger forces them to find a meal. After that, they stay wrapped in each other, kisses and soft touches being shared. 

They’ll go back to the hunt tomorrow. For now, they enjoy a day of rest together, and they enjoy the sun shining above them.

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed this :D 
> 
> Don't hesitate to leave a comment or a kudos! If you have sth you need motivation for and want a fic to be for you, hit me up on tumblr (@saltytransidiot) :D I'm literally... always writing :"D
> 
> Thanks for reading !


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